


Every Which Ray

by Ineke Meyer (Tevere)



Category: due South
Genre: Juvenilia, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-18
Updated: 2004-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tevere/pseuds/Ineke%20Meyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between them there's a bullet, working its way through his flesh and bone. A sharp point of hate and memory and what had been love, scratching and gnawing until his body's cocooned it with thick, inflexible scar tissue; covered it inside and out, until it's numb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Which Ray

"I feel like I'm about to fuck a virgin," Ray says, looking over Fraser's shoulder at Ray -- the _other_ Ray, and dear lord, this could be confusing. Already _is_ confusing. What was it his father had said? _We all make our own beds, son, but sometimes we don't get to choose who we lie in them with_... or something like that, one of the terrible metaphors that his father seemed to enjoy substituting for adequate parenting; and really, it doesn't matter at all now, does it? As always, his father is wrong, dead wrong, dead _and_ wrong, and there's just no advice that can help a situation like this, where Ray Kowalski is kneeling naked in front of him and Ray Vecchio is kneeling naked behind him. Ray in front of him has an intense, petitioning expression, and his hands are resting on his thighs, index finger tapping softly. The mattress settles slightly behind Fraser with Ray Vecchio's weight, and Fraser feels like he's falling.

Falling backwards and falling forward. Doesn't know which way to go, so here he is going every which Ray at once--

Fraser stifles the urge to laugh hysterically; settles instead for a peculiar choking sound.

Behind him, Ray snaps, "He's not a fucking virgin, Kowalski."

"Yeah, 'cause if he was _fucking_ then he wouldn't _be_ a virgin, Vecchio--"

"Oh, clever, Kowalski, very clever. And where the hell were _you_ when we had to live through that trainwreck of a fuckup that was Fraser not being a virgin, huh?"

Ray gestures eloquently with his head: cocky, insouciant, so very _this_ Ray -- there's never any fear of getting the two of them mixed up, in his head or in bed or in any other way. It's incandescent Ray, leaning forward with his teeth bared in a not-quite-smile. "Well, I was being _me_, Vecchio. Where the fuck were you?"

"I was there," says Ray Vecchio harshly, and he's dark to Ray Kowalski's light. Yin and yang, hot and cool, feeling and thinking, and if the two of them slide, click, fit together like one of Bob Fraser's perfect dovetail joints, then where does that leave Fraser?

"Oh yeah, so you were." Ray lays his hand lightly over Fraser's chest. He's got long, elegant fingers -- musician's fingers, but smudged with carbon and smelling faintly of greased metal. Fraser looks down at them resting just below his left pectoral, the thumb pressing warm and a little moist against the midpoint of his sternum.

He feels the touch echoed on his back: a flat palm, Ray Vecchio's palm, over the ugly knot of scar tissue against his spine.

"Fraser. _Fraser_. Breathe."

And Fraser breathes, suspended between the two touches. _Pilgrims' hands_, he thinks, and between them there's a bullet, working its way through his flesh and bone. A sharp point of hate and memory and what had been _love_, scratching and gnawing until his body's cocooned it with thick, inflexible scar tissue; covered it inside and out, until it's numb.

"Bitch is gone, Benny," says Ray in his ear, and the mattress shifts like the surface of the sea. "But we're here."

"We're here for you, Fraser. You remember that," Ray says quietly, and leans forward and kisses Fraser: presses softly lip to lip, with just a hint of sandpaper.

"Faggot," says Ray Vecchio lightly, when Ray pulls back.

Ray grins. "Jealous, Vecchio?"

"Of you, Kowalski?" Ray snorts. "Not likely."

Ray Kowalski laughs, and shallow curves dip and fluctuate under his ribs and in the lee of his iliac crests. There's none of the soft excesses of the female body about him, and when his hand curls on his thigh, it frames his quiescent cock.

"Jealous of Fraser then, Vecchio?" says Ray, leering. "I'll kiss you too, but it'll cost ya."

"Whoring yourself out, Stanley?" Ray Vecchio asks sardonically. "Am I surprised?"

"Fuck you, Vecchio."

"What can I say? Oh, how about: It'll cost ya?"

Hands take Fraser's face from behind; tilt him around and hold him still for a kiss. Ray Vecchio kisses diffidently: there's more space between them, perhaps, and Ray Kowalski's anchoring hand is gone from Fraser's chest, even though Ray Vecchio's touch has shifted into a half-embrace to compensate.

Ray's observing them with a quirked eyebrow when they break apart. "No wonder your wife left you, Vecchio," he says.

"Your wife left you too, _Stanley_."

"Yeah, but because I was a loser, not because I sucked in bed."

"Oh, fuck you, Kowalski," Ray says.

Ray Kowalski smiles widely, with teeth. "Watch how it's done, Vecchio."

And Ray Vecchio keeps his arms around Fraser as Ray Kowalski kisses Fraser again: performing for an audience, but devastatingly intent nonetheless. The shared space their mouths occupy is slippery, wet, _hot_, and Ray's tongue slyly licking Fraser's bottom lip is exciting out of proportion to the mechanics of the actual event. There's the wet velvet texture of Ray's tongue on his lips, on the corner of his mouth -- but Fraser can almost _feel_ a sympathetic sensation on his nipples and on his cock, too: warm-wet-soft slicking cleverly around him, and he wants to relax into it, fall, but instead finds himself thrilling with a harsh, electric buzz that rises and rises and rises.

Ray Vecchio reaches around from behind and plays idly with Fraser's nipples. It's surprisingly erotic, this half-helpless submission to a string of anonymous touches -- but it _isn't_ anonymous, it's _Ray_ \-- and Fraser jumps skittishly like a nervous colt, but only once. His nipples are newfound erogenous territory: tingling, sparking, drawing his attention to the two disparate points. The addition is too much, though: his attention divides, splits, recombines into wild and bizarre patterns, trying to take in every touch, every sensation, at once. Ray-this-new-Ray's mouth, kissing with the sort of mildly ironic lewdness of someone who's actually half-amused, and his hands creeping up Fraser's thighs. Ray-the-_other_-Ray's teeth pressing into Fraser's left shoulder; one cool, sure hand on Fraser's waist; one hand sliding down to close briefly around Fraser's cock, and that's _it_: it's _sensory overload_, it's the final cabbage leaf that broke his uncle Tiberius's back, and the inside of Fraser's head spins and spins. He gasps into Ray Kowalski's mouth, and both Rays laugh.

"You should do that to him again," says Ray Kowalski. His knees drift apart as he moves closer, corralling Fraser neatly between their two bodies. Knees touch to either side of Fraser: Ray-in-front's bonier, blond-haired ones knocking against Ray-behind's dark-haired ones, and Fraser himself is as milky and smooth-skinned as a newborn seal, and his knees are rounded and functional.

"No shit," says Ray Vecchio, as pleased as the cat got the cream.

Ray Kowalski goes back to kissing Fraser with admirable thoroughness, and Ray Vecchio's hands slide from Fraser's collarbones to his cock and back again in a manner that leaves Fraser arching frustratedly, chasing something harder, something _more_.

"C'mere, Vecchio," says Ray huskily, pushing away from Fraser. Their cocks brush briefly as Ray kneels up: a slick, gorgeous dragging sensation down the length of Fraser's cock that expands and flows in a warm rush through his legs and lower belly. The tingles fade into a tantalising ache after a second, and Fraser can't help a soft moan of sheer, unadulterated _wanting_. Can't help his hand from following the glowing trail beneath his skin, tracing downwards from his navel to fist loosely around the base of his cock. He slides his thumb furtively up to the head and presses, _ah, yes-- there_, and perhaps he said it out loud because Ray half-stops, turns, and his hand makes a stuttering, abortive gesture towards his own cock.

"Shit, _Fraser_," is all he says, though.

"For God's sake hurry it up, Kowalski, or he's gonna come without our goddamn help," says Ray Vecchio edgily. He crawls forward on the bed, oddly incongruous in his nakedness.

"You want I should--?"

Ray Vecchio smiles like a shark. "You know, all those times I mentally uttered the phrase: 'suck my cock, Kowalski,' and I never thought tha-- _ah_, never thought that--" He looks down, face flushing and falling a little slack. "Never thought that, ah, _Christ_\--"

Ray Kowalski turns his head and winks. Fraser sees Ray Vecchio's cock slip wetly between his lips; sees a flash of pink tongue.

The shades are drawn tightly against the hot afternoon sun, but a crack slips through and illuminates the proceedings: the three of them splashed out in a golden, pornographic triptych against the background of a darkened room. The images reel out in Fraser's head even as they play in front of his eyes: he feels dizzy, a little distanced, as though his perspective's slipping and stretching like soft taffy. He can almost _see_ himself watching: see himself pale and glowing against the dust motes, debauched and messy-haired and panting with his hand on his own cock, while over on the far panel of the triptych Ray Kowalski leans forward with his hair haloed brilliantly by the sunlight. Ray Vecchio's bowed head is sharply outlined in silhouette, and his thighs are peppered with dark curls that glint with his shallow upward thrusts.

Above the blood roaring thinly in his ears, Fraser hears Ray Vecchio suddenly gasp.

"Fuck, fuck, _stop_." Vecchio grabs Ray Kowalski; pulls him off with a wet _pop_. "Shit, I'm gonna--"

Ray Kowalski sits back on his heels and smirks. "Party ain't even started yet, Vecchio."

"Goddamn, fuck, fuck," says Ray Vecchio, ignoring him and screwing up his eyes into an expression of intense concentration. His wet-tipped cock points at Ray Kowalski and bobs accusingly.

The tension in the bedroom pulls tight: Fraser can feel it tugging in his groin. Tight, hot anticipation that throbs in upward waves with Ray Vecchio's harsh breaths. Rubbing the heel of his hand along his cock only inflames it: it's a hard, sweet ache that builds like pressure behind a concrete dam, rising and rising and rising.

"Okay, okay, not gonna." Ray Vecchio takes a final, deep breath. "You're a pretty good cocksucker, Stanley," he says, with an air of magnanimousness.

"Natural talent," says Ray easily. "You sure you're good to go? Because," he smirks, "yeah, I don't know how much longer Fraser over there can hold out, and I'm thinkin' we could even do it without ya."

Ray Vecchio's eyes narrow, but he only says: "Just gimme the goddamn rubber, Stanley."

Ray grins, flicks him the plastic square from between thumb and forefinger. "Easy, tiger."

And the triptych suddenly folds in on itself like an origami box: Fraser's in the middle and Ray and Ray are enfolding him, drawing him down into the hot, musky space between themselves with warm and cool hands.

"Just relax, Benny," says Ray behind him, and Fraser can feel the rough hair on his legs against the backs of his own; can feel an unfamiliar slick hardness pressing against the lower curve of his buttocks. He knows what it is -- of _course_ he knows what it is -- and the thought shakes him with a desire so intense it blurs his vision until all he can see is light and shadow and light hair and dark hair and Ray.

"Don't think so hard, Fraser," says the Ray in front of him with a crooked smile, and slides gracefully down Fraser's body to take him into that clever, lopsided mouth.

The contact is like the hard jerk of an electric shock. Fraser groans, arches up, comes down onto Ray Vecchio's cock: slide, fit, click, and the three of them are locked together -- Ray, Fraser, Ray, _RayFraserRayFraserRay_, and Ray Vecchio makes a low sound and his fingers tighten on Fraser's hips. Ray Kowalski cups one hand beneath Fraser's scrotum and his other overlaps with Ray Vecchio's on Fraser's hip: together they're pushing Fraser down, sliding him onto the length of Vecchio's cock, centimetre by slow centimetre.

Fraser's knees drop and touch the bed to either side of Ray Vecchio's, and he's sinking down, seating himself so slowly that the stretch is an exquisitely pleasurable surrender rather than the burn he'd been half-expecting. Ray's _inside_ him, and Fraser can feel himself moulded around that wonderful hardness, his body changing and yielding and shaping itself to the intrusion.

Ray Kowalski flicks his tongue once, twice, and Fraser bites his lip and lets his shaking thigh muscles drop him the last inch. And oh, god, he's filled, impaled, _open_, and Ray Vecchio's as solid as a rock, letting Fraser shiver and tremble around him.

"Yeah, Benny," says Ray huskily, "_yeah_."

Ray Kowalski doesn't say anything, but he squeezes Fraser's hip and licks in a swirling, circular pattern that leaves Fraser breathless and arching minutely towards the sensation. And arching towards Ray's mouth means that Fraser slides just a fraction up Ray Vecchio's cock, and then Ray Vecchio thrusts up and the head of his cock hits some spot deep within Fraser that makes Fraser see briefly stars, convulse and say hoarsely in a voice that doesn't seem his own: "Oh, _Ray_\--"

"Shit, Benny," says Ray Vecchio, breathing fast. He pulls Fraser's hips towards him, starting up a rhythm that leaves Fraser moaning helplessly on each upstroke.

Ray Kowalski replaces his mouth with his palm, and his lips are reddened and wet. "Holy fuck, _Fraser_," he says, and he's jerking Fraser fast and hard in a perfect counterpoint to Ray Vecchio's thrusts. "You should see yourself. You're -- oh _god_, you're the perfect wet dream, with your mouth open like that and, god, your _thighs_ \-- I can actually see Vecchio fucking you, I can see his _cock_, and you've got this expression on your face like you can't even remember your own goddamned _name_\--"

Fraser feels like he's being fucked from the inside and the outside, like he's just a thin two-dimensional strip of nerve endings being rubbed between Ray's cock and Ray's hand, and it's all one tight, spiralling wave of pleasure upon pleasure, ramping up and up and _up_\--

\-- and the pleasure hits a peak that Fraser thinks is just another one on the way up, but it's _not_ because it's the _top_, it's every nerve ending in his body firing at once and he arches gasping into Ray's hand. His legs give out, Ray Vecchio thrusts upwards and Fraser's orgasm is jerked out of him from the inside out, starting deep at the base of his spine and shuddering, spasming its way outwards into the hot, just-rough just-right friction of Ray's hand.

Ray Kowalski makes a choking noise and grabs for his own cock with the hand that isn't on Fraser. Ray Vecchio's breathing has deteriorated into a series of stuttering gasps that doesn't quite match the rhythm of his thrusts, and Fraser feels Vecchio's thighs shaking with pleasure and with the effort of holding on until they're both oh-god-_there_\--

"Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, oh god, _Ray_," says Fraser, and comes.

***

Fraser's asleep -- or very nearly -- and Ray and Ray are talking quietly in the background. The bed bumps: someone swinging his legs over the side, leaning down to pull on a shoe.

"Don't be an asshole, Vecchio," says Ray.

"I don't know about you, Kowalski -- and for what the hell I know, you could be fucking men all the goddamned time -- but I need some time to process what just happened, okay?"

"You need some time to process?" Ray sounds incredulous. "So you fucked your best friend, 'cause you _care_ about him. You're gonna go process that in a glass of scotch? 'Cause I gotta tell you, he's gonna feel real great when he wakes up to find that you've had a freakout and can't look him in the eye anymore -- and whatcha gonna say to that? Oh, sorry, _Benny_, guess you just must have slipped, tripped, fell on my dick, can we just be friends now, no hard feelings?"

"Fuck off, Kowalski."

The bed shifts, there's a silence, and then Ray finally says, "Come back to bed, Ray."

"Look," says Ray Vecchio, sounding tired, "I'm not a fag, _Ray_. I like women. I did this because--"

"--because you love Fraser," says Ray simply. "I love him too -- and you know what, Vecchio? He needs us more than you need your fucking macho posturing -- so get back into bed, okay?"

There's a sigh, and then a corner of the bed dips. "I don't like _you_, Kowalski."

"Yeah, well, mutual."

Someone crawls into the bed behind Fraser, holds up the covers for someone else to reluctantly roll under them. It's Ray Kowalski's shoulder pressing warmly against Fraser's back -- and for all his diffidence, Ray Vecchio is barely a hand's breadth away from Fraser's chest, tall and lanky and musky with the scent of all three of them on his skin.

"You think this is kind of fucked up?" says Ray quietly to Ray.

"I think _you're_ kind of fucked up."

Ray Vecchio snorts at that, rolls onto his side and loops an arm around Fraser's waist. "I'm doing it for him, Kowalski, not for you, you understand?" he says.

Ray Kowalski's hand gently traces the curve of Fraser's bicep. "I'm doing it for him too, Vecchio."

And perhaps they keep talking after that, but it's so very easy to just drift within the closed circle of their arms. It's a warm, familiar closeness that reminds Fraser of something he can't quite place -- and between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.

 

ENDS


End file.
